How I Spend My Light
by The Book Sniffer
Summary: When Sherlock goes blind he has to learn how to live without his sight and learn how he can keep working as a detective with out being able to observe. Rated T for language. Slash.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer- Sherlock belongs to the BBC. The poem was written by John Milton.**

WHEN I consider how my light is spent

E're half my days, in this dark world and wide,

And that one Talent which is death to hide,

Lodg'd with me useless, though my Soul more bent

To serve therewith my Maker, and present

My true account, least he returning chide,

Doth God exact day-labour, light deny'd,

I fondly ask; But patience to prevent

That murmur, soon replies, God doth not need

Either man's work or his own gifts, who best

Bear his milde yoak, they serve him best, his State

Is Kingly. Thousands at his bidding speed

And post o're Land and Ocean without rest:

They also serve who only stand and waite.

-On His Blindness, John Milton

Chapter One

Sherlock and John were in a deserted alleyway, looking for the house of the criminal of the latest case. "That one," Sherlock pointed at a large, gray house.

"How do you know?"

"Well, since we believe that he's a CEO, he would have a large salary, and this is the only house that fits with that. The house is far bigger than the others in the neighborhood, and has a much bigger yard. Also, his car is parked outside. He drove it away from the crime scene, which was caught on tape." Sherlock chuckled. "But," he added, "it looks like there's nobody home and he left a first floor window open. Tsk, tsk. Not a highly trained criminal, is he?"

"You want us to break into his house?" John asked, aghast.

"Could be dangerous." Sherlock winked. "Shall we?"

"Let's get this over with."

Inside the house it was dark, decorated with stark and modern furniture. Sherlock picked up a photograph off the mantelpiece. "Dark hair, around six feet, wiry. Fits our profile."

He saw John nod at him. "Here's a picture of him at work. It's him."

Sherlock heard a floorboard creak and turned around. The CEO stood there, with a cricket bat aiming at John's head. "John!" Sherlock called, but it was no use, the man had already struck. Next, he turned to Sherlock and struck him in the back of the head as well. Sherlock felt himself fall as everything went dark.

Sherlock woke up, or at least he thought he woke up. He wasn't quite sure. He couldn't see much, except for patches of dark and light. He closed and opened his eyes again, and gave his eyes a chance to adjust. It was the same. No details, no shapes, no objects. Nothing. Then Sherlock remembered what had been happening before he had been knocked out. "John?" he called out, hoping to sound confident, but instead feeling like a lost child, searching for his mother. "John? Where are you?"

"I'm right here, Sherlock. Right next to you." His voice sounded close, within arms reach, but Sherlock's hands were tied behind his back.

He felt his throat close up as he asked, "Where are we?"

"Looks like a basement. I kicked the man in the head, so he's knocked out, but not for long. He'll probably wake up soon. I can't get the rope off my wrists though. Look around."

"I can't," Sherlock whispered, "I don't know why, but I can barely see at all. Only a bit of light."

"What?"

"I can't see where we are. I can only see light and dark. That's it. I don't know what to do. I don't know how to get out of here, and I don't know what happened."

"We'll get out of here," John said, but he didn't sound positive. "I'll scoot my chair towards yours and I'll untie you, then you can untie me. We'll get you to a hospital. They can figure out what's happened. They can fix it." Sherlock heard the scraping of wood against concrete as John moved and then began fumbling with his binds. They fell to the floor.

"Thanks," murmured Sherlock, feeling like a young child again, thanking mother for untying his shoelaces.

"Do you think you can handle untying me?"

"Yes. I may not be able to see, but I can still feel," Sherlock slid his fingers over the tangle and began working. It took him much longer than it had taken John, but eventually John's hands were free.

"Here, I'll untie the ones around your legs." John easily unbound them, and then began on his own.

Once they were both completely loose, John began giving orders to Sherlock. "There's a small window to the left of us. We can break it and escape through there." He grasped Sherlock's hand and guided him to where the window must have been. He heard the break of glass as John smashed the chair through the window. "You first."

Sherlock nodded, then climbed onto the chair and hoisted himself through gingerly, careful not to cut himself. Once he was safely on the ground above, he reached his hand down to pull John up. Now that they were both through, John grabbed Sherlock's hand and they ran.

"Taxi!" John called, running short of breath, "Taxi!" A car pulled up near them. "St. Barts," John panted. He opened the door and led Sherlock inside. The clicking of phone buttons and then, "Mycroft? We need attention at St. Barts. Sherlock's been hurt. We're in a cab now. " He paused. "I don't know what's wrong. His head got hit, and now he can't see. I never had to deal with anything like this in Afghanistan." He shook his head wearily and paused again, "A neurologist and an eye doctor would do. Thanks," he hung up the phone and sighed, "Mycroft says he'll be able to pull some strings and get a couple of specialists to see us right when we get there. So...you just...can't see?" He asked

"I can see light. Dark. Where the light is coming from. But other than that, no. Not since I woke up." Sherlock was starting to panic. What if his vision never came back? What if he couldn't work anymore? What if he wasn't extraordinary without his sight? The endless what-if's flowed through his head, each one terrifying him more than the next.

"Sherlock. Calm down. Everything is going to be fine. The doctors will know what they're dealing with." John grabbed his hand. John's hands felt rough and scarred, but warm, which was what Sherlock needed.

"Can we not talk? I need time to think."

"Of course, Sherlock."

They sat in silence for the rest of the cab ride, holding hands, waiting, until finally John said, "We're here."

**A/N- Thanks to my Beta, allegrapf, I was able to publish this without too many grammatical errors. Also, her and I are challenging ourselves to write 50,000 words of fanfiction by next year, so if you want to check her profile out, that would be great. That's all, thanks for reading!**


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer- I do not own Sherlock.**

Chapter Two

After questioning, poking, and prodding for over two hours, both doctors, Doctor Clark and Doctor Jameson left to Clark had been a female, mid-thirties. Doctor Jameson was male, he sounded around sixty. Sherlock had tried to deduce more, but there wasn't much he could do just by the sound of their voices. Now, his sight wasn't the thing he was most worried about never getting back. It was the work that he really wanted. John entered the room, his footsteps moving slowly.

"Is everything okay in here?"

Sherlock nodded towards the direction of the voice, "Tedious, but okay."

"The doctors said that you were cooperating remarkably well. They're coming to a conclusion right now."

"I just want to go home, John."

"I know Sherlock. So do I. I'll work on it."

"Sherlock, we bring some bad news," one of them started after they reentered the room. "We believe that when your head was hit, the occipital lobe was affected, causing a type of blindness where you only have light perception. Based on other cases like yours, we believe it's incurable."

"Are you sure?" asked John.

"Positive."

Sherlock put his head in his hands while John placed a hand on his shoulder. His throat closed up, but Sherlock knew that the doctors were expecting tears, and Sherlock wasn't going to give them. He had to stay strong.

The doctor began speaking again, "I know it-"

"Shut up!" yelled Sherlock, who was past the tipping point, "You just informed me that I'm permanently blind, and now you're going to say, 'Don't worry Sherlock. You can live a perfectly normal life even if you're blind.' But I don't want a normal life. I want my life!"

John stepped in before Sherlock could re-start his rant. "It's been a long day for both of us. We're going back to the flat, we can discuss this in the morning."

"Of course," said the doctor, faltering, "we shouldn't have been so insensitive. How about 10 o'clock?"

"Done."

Sherlock and John sat in silence during the cab ride home. When they entered the flat, John started making tea while Sherlock sat down at the kitchen table.

"I'm so sorry, Sherlock," began John.

"Thanks for the sympathy," Sherlock said sarcastically.

John delivered a warm mug of tea into Sherlock's hands. He sipped it. Chamomile.

"If I could trade places with you, I would. If there's anything you need me to do, just say it."

"Not right now, thanks."

They continued talking about mundane things, and Sherlock knew that it was Johns way of showing him that he was there, until John's phone rang. He answered it and said, "Thank you, Mycroft, for doing all that . . . Yeah, we're at the flat, but we'll be back to discuss care in the morning . . . yeah, at 10 . . . We'll see you there."

"Mycroft?" Sherlock asked when John finished.

"Mhm...he'll meet us at St. Bart's tomorrow morning. You should get some rest, it's almost 2:30 A.M." John led Sherlock to his bedroom and helped him brush his teeth, change, get dressed and climb into bed. ."Good night, Sherlock." John sounded resigned, and it was then that Sherlock knew that he couldn't ask John to do this. He had to let him go.

"Good night, John."

Sherlock woke up at 8:30 the next morning. He opened his eyes, but saw nothing, and then remembered. He was blind. He entered the shower and did his best to wash. When Sherlock finished, he faced the task of choosing clothes.

_I can dress myself,_ he thought, _it can't be that hard._

Sherlock lumbered to his closet and chose a suit and a shirt, put them on, and hoped for the best.

"Glad to see you're up. Coffee?" John said as Sherlock entered the room.

"Yes."

"You got dressed, too! Of course you still have impeccable fashion sense without sight."

"I didn't think that you'd appreciate it if I came out wearing a towel. What would the neighbors think?" mocked Sherlock, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

Sherlock could tell that John was smiling, his voice sounded like it was stifling back a laugh, and remembered how nice the simple action of smiling could be.

"What did I end up choosing?"

"Black suit, midnight blue shirt. Very nice."

They both drank their coffee, taking their time, but not saying much. That was one of the things Sherlock liked best about John, he didn't press for conversation all the time. Sometimes it was okay for them to just be quiet.

"Well, it's ten now, so we'd better get going. We can hail a cab."

"Mycroft will be there, yes?"

"Uh-huh," confirmed John.

"What about . . . Mother? Don't they usually have immediate family members at these kinds of things?"

"Mycroft said he wouldn't tell her until you're ready," assured John. He handed Sherlock his coat and scarf, then ushered him down stairs to the street, where a car was waiting.

"Sherlock Holmes and John Watson?" the driver asked.

"That's us," answered John, "did Mycroft send you?"

"Yes, I'm supposed to take you to St. Bart's, correct?"

Sherlock answered this time. "Yes, and we're in a bit of a rush." John opened the door and hurried Sherlock in. "Very kind of my brother to send a cab," he remarked dryly. "I love knowing that he thinks that I can't take care of myself."

"He's just worried," John defended weakly.

"Well he can stick his nose elsewhere."

When they arrived at the hospital, the doctors from yesterday were talking amongst themselves with hushed voices. A pair of arms enveloped Sherlock into a hug, startling him. He did not reciprocate the gesture.

"Sherlock," Mycroft's voice rang out. "I already made sure that John would be able to stay during this meeting. Given that he's your flatmate, he is the most logical person to have here. If there's anything you need from me, let me know."

"I need you to let go of me," hissed Sherlock, and much to his surprise, Mycroft released him and walked him into the room where the others were waiting. Dr. Clark sat them all down at a table and began talking. "Sherlock, we understand that you are in a hard situation, to be thrown into this in the middle of your life, but we want you to know, we will do everything we can to make this easier. You will be able to adapt to this new lifestyle." Sherlock rolled his eyes; this was beginning to sound like one of the commercials that were on John's favorite telly station. _And you can become a fully functioning blind person in just 30 days or less, otherwise you get your money back!_

"There are some things that can make living easier at first. For starters, you can practice going to places you visit often, like the grocery or the library."

Sherlock sighed. Dr. Clark's speech began to blur together until he heard, "Here is something we highly suggest using, a red and white cane. It's the international symbol of blindness, you know."

"No," refused Sherlock flatly.. "Those canes are horrible. Whenever you see someone using one, you're instantly filled with pity and guilt, like you shouldn't be able to see either. And if you bump into with someone with a cane like that, you become sickly sweet. People don't look at the person behind the cane, they look at the disability."

"Sherlock," Mycroft warned in his you're-being-difficult-voice. "At least think about it."

"I already did. And the answer's no."

"What about a cane that wasn't red and white?" suggested John. "Would that be better?"

"Mildly. If I found one I liked. But no dog. I'm not letting an animal with less intelligence than a small child lead me into oncoming traffic."

"How about Braille? Do you want to learn?" asked Mycroft.

"Yes. You know how I feel about reading."

The conversation went on, and eventually it was decided that Sherlock would get a new computer, phone and learn Braille with a tutor. Mycroft would support both John and Sherlock financially while they got things figured out, so that John could take time off work. One of the doctors suggested hiring someone to teach Sherlock how to travel around, but Sherlock refused that too.

"I don't need a complete stranger telling me how to live my life," Sherlock had said. After the meeting was over, Sherlock took John aside and said what had been bothering him since last night. "I understand if you're having second thoughts about sharing a flat. If you feel this is too much for you, I completely understand. You can leave. Get a new flat if you want, but I can't ask you to do all of this for me."

"You think I want to abandon you?" gasped John, "Do you really believe I would do that."

"It's just so much work. I don't want to put that on you."

"Sherlock, I would never leave you like this. Not ever. You need me, and quite frankly, I still need you. Don't suggest that I leave again, okay?"

"Okay."

**A/N- Thank you for reading! I'm going to try to be posting chapter about once a week. Hope you like it!**


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer- I do not own Sherlock. **

Chapter Three

"So you're saying that you told Lestrade about the accident and then he told the whole Yard?"

"Afraid so. He's visiting today. So are Molly and Mrs. Hudson."

"Anyone else?" sighed Sherlock. As he had experienced yesterday at the hospital, it could be extremely unnerving to have someone come out of the blue and start talking to him. Or worse, touching him.

"No, Mycroft can't take any more time off to stop by.". Another sigh from Sherlock.

After coming home from the hospital yesterday with Mycroft, they had gotten everything that would beneeded. They ordered a computer software that would read out text from websites and such, a new phone, and a cane. Sherlock was trying to think of it as a walking stick, but it didn't help much. John and Mycroft kept trying to choose the best one, but in Sherlock's opinion, it didn't matter what the cane looked like as long as it wasn't a red and white monstrosity. In the end, they chose a long, dark, wooden cane that would apparently go very well with his coat.

A knock came from the door, jolting Sherlock from thought. "I'll get it," volunteered John as he walked to the door.

"Sherlock!" Lestrade called. "Good to see you!" He then paused, and started apologizing, "I'm sorry, that was insensitive of-"

"No, no, its fine. Don't worry about it." Sherlock stood up and listened as Lestrade's footsteps approached, but he was still taken aback when he clapped him on the shoulder.

"Sit down," said John, "make yourself at home."

Sherlock lowered himself back into his armchair and heard the couch squeak as both John and Lestrade sat down.

"Sherlock," Lestrade said, "I have a gift for you." He handed Sherlock a neatly wrapped box. Sherlock fumbled with the wrapping paper, but eventually was able to open it. He felt what was inside, sunglasses.

"I don't want to wear sunglasses. I'm blind and I don't give a shit what anyone else thinks," Sherlock growled.

"He means, 'Thank you'," John cut in.

"I'll be back on cases next week," Sherlock informed Lestrade. "I would try to be back sooner, but John doesn't want me leaving the flat alone until then."

"Sherlock, I'm not so sure that's a good idea . . ." began John, worry lacing his voice.

"You can take as much time off as you need to, don't rush it," Lestrade assured them, but Sherlock was adamant.

"I'll see you next week," he said.

After Lestrade left Sherlock began pacing awkwardly. "So that's why people are visiting? To give me 'Sorry you're blind gifts'?"

"Come on, Sherlock, it's not that bad."

Sherlock continued pacing, he was feeling increasingly trapped. He stomped over to where John kept his gun and felt around for it, but it was nowhere to be found.

"Where's my gun, John?" he asked, trying to keep his voice level.

"First off, it's _my_ gun. It's not yours."

"Where's your fucking gun then? Give it to me now! I have to shoot something!" bellowed Sherlock.

"I hid it!" John shouted back. "I couldn't very well have you run around with a gun anymore! It's not safe!"

A timid knock came from the door, "Is now a bad time?" asked Mrs. Hudson.

"No, not at all. Come in." John sounded relieved for an excuse to stop fighting.

"Hello Sherlock, John. I brought some soups that you can put in the freezer and then eat later this week," she said, "and also a fresh baked loaf of bread."

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock supplied, and he honestly was thankful. "That'll be helpful."

"It's no trouble at all, dear. You enjoy it, okay?"

"Of course."

"I'm only able to stop by for a short while, but I'll be back tomorrow. You take care of yourselves till then." John and Sherlock both said goodbye as she left. Sherlock was about to sit down when another knock came from the door. _Must be Molly,_ he thought. Sherlock stood up to get the door and only knocked a few things on his way there. When he opened the door, Molly threw her arms around him and said, "Sherlock, I'm so glad to see you're safe!"

"Thanks."

"It's nice to see you too, Molly," John called from the kitchen where he was fitting all of the pots of soup into the freezer.

"Oh, let me grab what I brought for you." Molly said, and Sherlock could hear the girlish grin in her voice. "Here, sit down and I'll give it to you there."

Sherlockcomplied and waited for her. She placed a small, fluffy animal in his arms, "A cat!" he exclaimed in surprise.

"I thought you might get lonely," stated Molly, sounding pleased with herself. "I also brought some cat food, a litter box, and a carrier. You should be all set for supplies for the next month."

John started to protest. "Molly, I'm not sure if a cat is a great idea at this-"

"Nonsense!" she interrupted. "What are you going to name it?" she asked Sherlock.

He thought for a second, "Schroedinger, I think."

"Doesn't really make for any good nicknames," scoffedJohn. Molly taught both Sherlock and John how to care for Schroedinger and gave them the phone number for a vet.

"I'm really glad to see that you're handling this so well, Sherlock," she said.

"Come back in a week and see how I am then."

"We can't keep a cat!" John insisted to Sherlock.

"Isn't it rude to get rid of other peoples presents? Remember, you wouldn't let me sell those cufflinks." The cat had rather grown on Sherlock, and Molly was right, he could use some company.

"I don't need two ill-tempered, lazy animals in the house!"

"Fine, I can leave too if you like," Sherlock said, feeling hurt. He turned his back away from John and let out a huff.

"No, Sherlock, I didn't mean it like that."

"Hmph."

"Look, Sherlock, I'm sorry. We can keep the cat if you really want."

"Schroedinger."

"What?"

"Stop calling him 'the cat', his name is Schroedinger,"

"Only you would name a pet after a scientist." Suddenly Schroedinger climbed up on Sherlock's lap, and plopped down. Sherlock stroked the long fur.

"I think he likes you," John laughed.

"See, how could you hate something like this? He's so sweet!"

"I guess you're right."

Sherlock got ready for bed alone this time. _Another day gone without seeing,_ he thought. _Just the rest of my life to go._

**A/N- Another chapter! I realized that I mistyped my Betas name. Its allegrafp, sorry about that. Please review!**


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